Country diary: traditional Lakeland shepherding at its best

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2018/mar/23/country-diary-traditional-shepherding-helm-crag-lake-district

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Not a solitary sheep tumbles to its death on Helm Crag or Steel Fell as I watch, though hundreds of them are picking their way down fellsides bristling with crags and along precipitous trods no wider than a single bootprint, and they are all pregnant.

The last time shepherds gathered this flock was in December. After duly becoming pregnant, when the tups were mingled in with the flock, the ewes were returned to the fells, finding their way as if by sixth sense back to their native heafs (pastures). Now they’re being collected again, this time for ultrasound scanning to check how many twins might be anticipated come spring.

Usually the presence of yapping, chivvying dogs might be expected to induce panic in a flock of 300 or so white-faced Herdwick sheep and send them falling over crags. Not these collies, however. Quick to respond to their master’s whistles and hollers, they demonstrate traditional Lakeland shepherding at its best; always knowing when to bide their time and steady up the flocks as they move them inexorably downwards. By a mixture of scolding (“Lie down!” to a dog becoming overly enthusiastic in giving chase) and praise (“Good lad/lass!” when a command is obeyed), the sheepmen control their dogs as if by Bluetooth.

The motorists driving along the A591 over Dunmail Raise, the mountain pass that links the northern and southern sides of the Lake District, see nothing of this drama – it is only obvious if you stop and gaze uphill. But from the direction of the Greenburn Valley, if you know the area, you will see on the skyline boulders poised where no boulders should be. But then through my pocket binoculars it becomes clear that these are not rocks but sheep. As one moves downwards and further into view, so another takes its place. Finally, like lookouts silhouetted on the summit, three shepherds appear, bringing up the rear to marshal the circling dogs while the fleecy river becomes a flood. As the bleating ewes are safely gathered into the farm’s sheepfolds, steam rises from their woolly backs like recent mists lifted over Grasmere’s icy lake.